Bloodstained Lineage
by Northlane
Summary: Jon Snow fights furiously beyond The Wall for his survival. But perhaps it is not only his duty, but his destiny. Jon never believed in destiny, and he would carve a path - his path - through all who said otherwise. [Previously Posted In The "Books" ASOIAF Section]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: Please forgive my lack of writing ability. I'm just getting back into it, and I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. Thanks! Enjoy!

* * *

Longclaw whipped and snarled faster than even the icy chill of the wind as Jon Snow lashed out brazenly. Every fiber in his being groaned in protest as the young man continued slashing furiously at the reanimated corpses of his own patrol. They had ventured Beyond The Wall nearly two days ago, though the sun was quickly fading. If Jon's hope was following suit, he hadn't had time to think about it as he clutched at an open wound underneath his sword-arm and cast Longclaw's Valyrian blade cleanly through the throat of his former brother.

Jon knew he was worn out and bleeding. He thought morbidly that he would rather burn himself alive than suffer the fate of his brothers as a witless wight. He knew, now, that their patrol group had been stalked from the second they left the safety of Castle Black for the unforgiving embrace of the cold. Just as they had quit their walking, and had begun to set up a semblance of a camp, the Others seized the opportunity.

The mist had slowly tiptoed in on legs stiff as an arthritic man's, yet more silently than snowfall. The temperature dropped harshly, as the men crowded around the beginnings of a fire, smoke obstructing their vision, and warmth overtaking their instincts. Wintery fingers pressed and pried at the Watchmen's skin, wherever it was exposed as the wind buffeted their huddled bodies. The man – Hyral – stoking the fire gurgled short a massive breath, spewing black obscenities and crimson blood into the snow. And as quickly as that, the slaves of the Others pressed their assault on the unsuspecting and weary Brotherhood. Had Ghost not unleashed a lunatic howl and pounced upon the mawless wight slipping seamlessly through the trees behind the Lord Commander, Jon would have joined his brothers in a macabre dance of reanimation.

Two of the formerly human creatures had skulked through the densely treed area, blindsiding the men of the Black. The striking black uniforms offset the blinding blue eyes of Jaek and Jaeryd; brothers not only in arms, but in blood, made to take the black after murdering a man in his sleep. Jon drew his sword, and began his six-on-one struggle with a surge of violence even colder than the Land Of Always Winter. As the reanimated corpses trudged towards him, Jon spat in annoyance and frustration, after watching the fire sputter to death in the snow. Dragonglass wouldn't do a damn thing against them, and his sword was only as good as the edge on it.

As they circled him with bad intentions, Longclaw arced and sang of Old Valyria as it bit through frozen flesh and bone, severing bloodless tendons and muscles. His only hope was to dismember his fallen friends enough that they were simply unable to attack him, their heads, arms and legs had to go, and Jon's ruthless swordplay was the only guarantee he had. With both hands on Longclaw, he hacked off Hyral's leg at the femur, and spun away from the others. But Jon was too slow, too tired, too overwhelmed. He felt a searing pain as he – once more – felt a dagger dig deeply under his arm, just as Bowen Marsh and his would-be assassins had done all those months ago.

With his tolerance for pain, and sheer determination to carve out an existence for himself, Jon had survived the attack, crawling on his stomach to Ghost, who had alerted everyone in Castle Black. It was miraculous that he had survived, as if somebody else had stepped into his skin and delivered him to safety. Yet once more, those instincts to survive burned inside of him, as Brandon Stark had burned on the outside.

Maybe it was Ghost warging into him. Or maybe the Lord Commander deserved more credit for his battle prowess than he gave himself. One could never be sure. He purged all of those thoughts, refusing to even lend credence to the idea of death. So he became alive, in a furious whirlwind of Valyrian steel. Jon and Ghost were a blur of savage efficiency, slicing and tearing away at the Other-slaves. As he dispatched the last abomination, Jon felt the hot splash of blood against his skin – his own blood.

Hunks of flesh lie writhing upon the snow as Jon wearily scanned the horizon for trouble. Having dispatched the last of the wights, or disabled rather, the young Lord Commander knew for certain that there were eyes upon him… Icy, unforgiving eyes. The eyes of one of the necromancing abominations known as Others.

Panting and bleeding, Jon sat down by the scattered embers of their – his – pitiful fire, Ghost nuzzling Jon's sword-hand, as if cautioning him to stay alert. The grotesque gurgling and hoarse, throaty groans coming from the dismembered, yet still 'living' wights, pressured Jon into very quickly trying to stoke a flame into existence, if not to kill his former Black Brothers, then to silence them at least. Jon stacked up a few handfuls of the dry wood they had gathered earlier, and watched as the smoldering embers smoked pathetically, unable to catch ablaze.

Everything grew even colder, and the sound of splintering ice resonated stridently through the icy atmosphere, a needle slowly piercing through silk. Bloodied and snarling, Jon sprang to his feet and snatched Longclaw, brandishing it fiercely as roaring winds snuffed out even the idea of his miserable excuse for a fire.

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**Author's Notes**: This was utter shit, I think. I dunno. I just really wanted to get the first chapter finished. I'm just now getting back into writing, and I really have to work to get my chops back in order. I hope this wasn't too boring, or too predictable. I love hearing from all of you, so if you feel so inclined, the 'Review' button is riiiiiight there.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

A massive black lizard slammed down to the ground in front of Jon, whose eyes steeled over with the same look Ned's had as he stared at Arthur Dayne and Dawn, crashing down towards him, before Jon's birth. He cut a heroic figure, bleeding, disheveled, with hair silvered by snowflakes, yet valiantly standing his ground, with Longclaw glinting dangerously in the thinning light.

The black beast unleashed a booming roar and lashed out with a scaly claw at the Lord Commander. He slipped underneath it and charged towards its massive body, and let out an icy howl rivaling Ghost's own. Jon couldn't see his beloved direwolf, and could only pray for his safety as he plunged Longclaw as hard as he could into the dragon in front of him. The adrenaline from his previous fight still coursed through his veins, his heartbeat hammering maddeningly in his ears.

The black dragon reared up and flapped its wings, Jon's sword still lodged in its chest. It did not roar, or screech, but only unleashed a torrent of flames that washed over the Lord Commander's body with a warmth that banished all memories of Winter. Everything went as black as the raging behemoth snarled only a few feet above him.

(-=-=-=-=-)

Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Westeros, shivered in the cold keep of Winterfell, staring out onto the northern horizon. She had come to the northern capital two days ago to begin her very first tour of the major cities which she would be ruling. It was as much a political move as it was military, in order to _make_ her presence known. She had decided to start with Winterfell, the northernmost city in her kingdom, and also the seat of the Stark family.

Daenerys had heard stories of the treacherous and bloodthirsty Starks from Viserys, though to him, everyone that was not a Targaryen was seemingly sub-human. It was actually Tyrion Lannister that had expounded more accurately upon House Stark and their nature. She had grown fond of talking with Bran, wise beyond his years, about his family – what was left of them. A shadow on the dying horizon shook her from her musings.

Dany's amethyst eyes rested upon Drogon's black frame, tinged with crimson in the distance, framed against the wall of grey skies and fading sunlight. Her other two dragons remained in King's Landing, a place she had conquered merely five months ago. She shook more violently, knowing that something was wrong. Something was wrong with her black dragon. She had felt it moments ago, and prayed for him to return immediately. In a silver flash, she was sprinting through the halls of Winterfell, her only concern for her 'child'.

She stepped into the courtyard as Drogon landed with a shrieking roar, taking notice of a bloody sword buried halfway into his chest, slick and red, pierced perfectly between two of his hard, armor-like scales. Drogon raged and slammed his tail against the ground in agony for what seemed like hours, before Dany was able to calm him down enough to deal with her beloved dragon's wound. She grabbed hold of the bastard sword, and yanked, dislodging the blade from Drogon's chest. She hummed to him, gently patting him, as she inspected the battle wound, taking great offense that somebody had dared to harm _her_ dragon… But he _was_ a dragon. Drogon had been hurt worse. He would live. As he was wont to do, Drogon quickly took to the skies again, riding high among the clouds, likely finding a place to recuperate. That was when she saw _him_.

Drogon had dropped what she thought to be lunch, but instead, Dany found herself staring at a peculiar, naked man with a thick head of black hair, sprawled face down in the frozen courtyard. The lean, muscular man was covered in blood and garish scars. _He must have done this_. _He should be ash_. She steeled herself, stepping towards the body cautiously, careful to keep the sword she had retrieved between herself and the stranger.

As she edged closer to the man, she heard a low growling behind her, starting as a low, guttural rumble. Before she could turn around, a great white wolf stalked past her, standing overtop the naked body of the man she was walking towards. He perched himself there, his blood red eyes focused narrowly upon the silvery wisp of a woman, clutching a bloodied sword. She raised the sword again, its awkward weight feeling impossible in her hands.

"Ghost? Why are you here?" Bran's voice came from the shadows, the hulking form of Hodor carrying the young, disabled Lord Stark. "Your Grace, your dragon woke me up. Are you alright? The roars were shaking the castle keep!" He looked alarmed as he called out to the prostrate form of his bastard brother, "Jon?! Jon! Hodor, take me to my brother!" The undersized giant lurched forward, conveying Bran to his unmoving brother. "We must get him inside. He looks badly injured…"

"That _man_ attacked my dragon… with _this_." Dany held up the sword in question, still slick with Drogon's blood. Her silver hair seemed to float around her head in the breeze, as her face was drawn tight in rage. She eyed Ghost warily, and pointed to him and his master, lips pressed firmly together, "I _demand_ that something be done! The blood of Drogon requires recompense, Lord Stark."

Bran's eyebrows raised in alarm; He had heard of the fiery temper of the Queen, but she had been nothing but pleasant during her stay at Winterfell. "Y-Your Grace! He is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch! He is my _brother!_"

"And a deserter, a traitor and a brigand!" The Queen looked down at Jon with contempt, as his wolf licks his face, similar to the way Drogon nudges her with his head. She banished all thoughts of the similarity, reminding herself of her beloved dragon's wounds.

The crippled Lord of Winterfell spoke quietly, "Your Grace, I don't mean to offend, but your dragon _is _a dragon. I don't understand why Jon would do such a thing… Please, Your Grace…" Bran watched Dany scowl, and set her face, mind made up. "We don't know all the details, and Jon's the only one who was there. Or do I need to remind you what happened the _last _time a Targaryen killed a Stark? Jon is a good man, Queen Daenerys… I beg of you."

Daenerys waved her hand violently, upset that her impulsiveness had been curbed. "Very well… " She fumed and huffed, angry for her dragon, and thoroughly livid at Bran's clarity of mind. She watched Hodor pick up Jon like a rag doll, as Bran thanked her for the life of his brother. Her lilac eyes smoldered like embers, as they rested on him. His bloodied, beaten face burned brightly in her memory, as she felt something cool and wet against her hand.

Ghost nuzzled her hand, and his red eyes locked with her own, before he silently padded after Jon Snow.

Author's Notes: Well… Thanks for all the reviews and reads guys! I appreciate it. I wanted Dany to show up, because apparently the story's about her and Jon Snow, but I just wanted to get a little different dynamic between them. I'm a little wary of the exchange of Dany and Bran, just because I felt like I forced it too much. Nothing of it flowed very naturally in my opinion. Stay tuned for the next update!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

* * *

Every bit of it was just too outlandish to believe. Daenerys sipped at her glass of wine thoughtfully, eying the back and forth between the pommel of Longclaw, and Ghost, who lazed by the fire in the main hall a few yards away. The resemblance was uncanny. Ghost looked over at her haphazardly, and yawned. He put his head back down.

The Lord Commander was still confined to his bedchambers – albeit unwillingly. He wasn't badly injured, but the stitches beneath his arm could still tear open very easily. Winters in the North were not known for being kind to open wounds. The damn man would have sprinted directly back to The Wall had Bran not ordered the hulk, Hodor, to keep him down. And there was still the issue of his even _being _in Winterfell. Again, it was too uncanny. Although feasible.

And Lord Commander Jon Snow had a particular way about him. Dany wasn't sure if she liked it. He spoke slowly and precisely. His words hid no agendas or snide undertones, but neither did they boast. Jon Snow was frank, direct, and honest. The Queen sipped her wine once more and stifled a laugh. She had almost laughed also, as Jon described the wights and Others – before the gory details. It had been funny that he looked at her directly, very patiently gathering his thoughts before he fashioned them "strange creatures made of ice and ambiguity".

And that's exactly how Daenerys Targaryen saw Jon Snow.

"Since you already have him in bed, do you plan to polish his sword for him too, your Grace?" Short and stout, a mop of sunshine hair waddled towards her, face fixed into a portrait of mirth, mismatched eyes laughing at the irony.

Dany arched a silver brow, "As you are my Lord Hand, perhaps it is _you _who should polish Lord Snow's sword. Perhaps you tire of the fairer sex?" In wit and conversation, Dany's true charm glowed like the sun, or perhaps more like the breath of Viserion. Her eyes glinted devilishly, amused that she had caught the Lannister Imp – renowned for his quickness of tongue – horribly off guard.

When they had gathered themselves, Tyrion looked over at the Queen from one of the chairs near the fire, his fingers pressed together like an imaginary tent. "What do you make of Lord Snow's story? I'm sure Lord Stark has said his fair share to you on behalf of his bastard brother... But what exactly, your Grace, are _your _thoughts on the matter?"

"Truthfully? I had half a mind to allow him a trial by combat. I thought to have Ser Bronn or perhaps Ser Jorah fight the man, and allow the strong to survive." Dany giggled. The wine was starting to get to her, so late in the afternoon. "If there's one thing I have learned, my Lord Hand, it is that impulsiveness is for battle. Patience is for war. I am not so sure exactly what to believe. But I don't think to be hasty in passing a judgment. He is of honest stock, and his words are direct and true. The whole tale is strange, of itself. Jon Snow shall be safe from me, save a few intrigues," Tyrion shot her a provocative look, motioning to the shaft of Jon's sword. Dany stared at the dwarf plainly, "But are we safe behind The Wall?"

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, before Tyrion got up, draining his own goblet. He eyed the wickedly sharp edge of Longclaw and said pensively, "You were wise to not put Lord Snow to trial by combat, my Queen. I have known Jon Snow for some time. As you said, 'Patience is for war', and Lord Jon Snow is vehemently patient. Your Grace." He turned and departed, muttering about whores, wine and spoiled appetites.

Queen Daenerys finished her own wine and tilted her head slightly, silvery hair spilling over slender shoulders of silky skin. Jon Snow was a strange character indeed, if Tyrion Lannister felt need to intercede and depart with a _warning_.

Dany rubbed at her temples with one hand, as an impending headache rolled in; one fitting the name 'Stormborn'. She felt a wetness at her foot, and looked up to see a flash of white fur loping down the hallway.

(-=-=-=-=-)

Bran and Tyrion conversed quietly in what _used _to be Ned's solar. The two were a sight, a broken boy and a man half his size spoke volumes about their two guests of honor. "Lord Tyrion, thank you for interceding on behalf of my lord-brother… I had feared for the worst when I saw the rage in Her Grace's eyes. If I and Hodor had not been there…" The young lord trailed off, shaking his head softly.

"Well, young Lord Stark, had you not interfered, likely both our Queen _and _your bastard-brother would be dead. I've had the occasion to see Lord Snow's beloved pet tear off men's _very _beloved limbs. It would have been an awfully difficult thing to explain to Westeros, without an heir to the throne."

Tyrion chuckled to himself at the irony, at how royally _fucked _everything would be in the wake of such an occurrence. Bran however remained silent, peering through the window, into the yard covered in piled snow as the shape of Ghost stalked through the yard. The Imp regarded the young lord, expression simultaneously worried and sour and confused all at once.

Daenerys was ruffling Ghost's head and appeared to be laughing as the white wolf licked her face beneath her countless layers of furs. Her head snapped back around, to look where she had come from.

Both Bran and Tyrion saw the pale man dressed entirely in black say something and bow his head before he wearily knelt in the snow next to Dany _too familiarly_. The two showered the direwolf with affection, itching behind his ears.

Jon Snow was not supposed to be out of bed. Jon Snow was not supposed to be anywhere _near _the Mother of Dragons. But he was.

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Author's Notes: It took me ages to get this chapter out. I know. Work has been absurd and I've been working 60 hour weeks. I'm sorry, truly. I appreciate all the feedback from every one of you. Trust me, I read them, and I think about 'em. So if you wanna see something, or somebody, just lemme know. I'll see if I can work them in.

I plan on releasing more VERY soon. This chapter was just kind of a cop-out to deal with some plot progression. I intend for things to speed up from here, indefinitely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: The utmost of apologies to all you. I know some of you are probably curious why I haven't updated in a while. Truthfully, I've been run ragged between work and the subsequent binge drinking involved with working so much. But, we hired some new folks at work, so maybe (fucking hopefully), I'll actually get a chance to begin writing again. I'd also like to thank **Selena Dobrev** from the bottom of my heart. You've written a fantastic story (and continue to) with **Caged Bird** but also thanks for giving me that last push to actually get something out. Without any further ado, Chapter 4 awaits. Enjoy y'all!

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Dany stiffly wandered the halls of Winterfell, desperate to put her mind on _anything _that would fix her hangover. She had taken a flagon of wine as her bedfellow the night before, a choice she had never made, and likely wouldn't repeat so readily. The soft red glow of the rising sun courted her from the window, like an overbearing suitor. And her headache assailed her still, pounding in chaotic reaction.

The day stood still. The Queen held her breath as the dark figure clinked through the hallway before her.

Visions of silver bells assailed her eyes, pure white framed against the darkest of nights. If only the fucking hangover would go away.

The unruly, uncut hair of invincibility coupled with the dull thud of metal armor clacking together drew lilac eyes more quickly than a magnet, before the vision passed into the next corridor.

(-=-=-=-=-)

"Lord Snow! If I may have a word!"

Jon turned, filling his eyes with silvery strands of hair and flawless amethysts boring into his bastard eyes. He dropped to his knee. "Your Grace."

"Sit with me."

"Your Grace."

Dany looked at him and laughed, "I think I may have met the most morose man in Westeros. I'm not that much of a beast!" She watched the left side of his mouth droop into a contrite frown. Jon shifted in his seat uncomfortably, eyes focused directly upon his goblet.

As Jon silently stared at his goblet of deep crimson wine, Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaeryen poured her goblet into Jon's, holding back her retching and cursing alcohol. "Water," she choked out.

The sunlight tickled Jon's nose as he nodded his head and rose to fill her goblet with water from one of the intricately carved, stone pitchers.

The queen greedily drank, eyes slamming shut like a portcullis during siege. She was silent for a time, before she set her cup down, exhaling evenly. "A word, Lord Jon Snow."

"Your Grace, I am no Lord. I am not even nobility. I do not suppose to instruct your Grace in addressing others, but I am not worthy of such titles."

"Drogon dropped you in the courtyard of Winterfell." Daenerys waved away Jon's attempts at humility. "I dare say I've had occasion to see you once ravaged by fire. The word Lord cannot hurt so much as that." Her eyes flashed with… something. She wanted an answer, but she didn't want to _have_ to ask the question.

"Your Grace, I'm a bastard." Jon's long face made the Queen want to punch him. "I do not profess to be the most fluent… or the most knowledgeable…" Jon lifted his gaze, locking slate with violet. "If you ask how I live after my duel with your dra- Drogon, I know not." He averted his eyes, and stared North, "There are many things of which I know not. I only know the Wall."

"I truly have met the most morose man in Westeros." Daenerys laughed, her voice carried across the hall like thousands of silver bells, spilt upon a sheet of ice. "If you're so fond of your doom and gloom, Lord Commander, pray tell me the story of your scars." She motioned with an open hand towards the man, a sly smirk surging as a wave up her face. The young woman was growing irritated of his carefully crafted façade. Jon Snow, steadfast and courageous, polite, slow to anger, righteous of judgment, cautious and perfect speaker… Daenerys could not fathom a man such as that, especially not one with a body so scarred as the Lord Commander's… No, there was a catch. There is always a catch.

"A group of my own men accosted me. I was… thinking rashly. I was going to use my power as Lord Commander for my own personal agendas… Arya… My men tried to kill me." Jon stood up and bowed slightly. "Your Grace."

The Queen eyed his retreating form. He had tensed up. There was a chink in the Wall. "Jon! Lord Snow!" When the man turned to meet her gaze, slate grey washed over her, an icy, unyielding grip like the last vestiges of winter before the turn of spring. "What did you do with those men, my lord?"

"I passed the judgment." Daenerys could have sworn she saw Jon's eyes flash red – blood red, as crimson as the burning eyes of his direwolf – for just a moment before the young man seemed to grow gaunt, immeasurably old, like a statue of a great hero, stoic and unrelenting. "I swung the sword."

(-=-=-=-=-)

"Yes, I know… I'm not sure how I feel about Her Grace…" Jon ruffled Ghost's fur before combing it out thoroughly as the white wolf tilted its large maw to the side, letting his tongue loll out. "She's… different. I suspect that she does not particularly appreciate the way we met… If I must tell the truth, I don't particularly blame her."

The Lord Commander made a face at Ghost, and gave him a playful shove before brushing out more matted chunks of white fur. The wolf nipped his hand playfully and whined, a low whistling sound. "I know _you _like her, traitor." Jon patted his companion on the head one more time, pensively toying with him. "She's definitely a queen. Sometimes one can simply tell. I'm afraid it's a bit overwhelming for a person such as I. I'm not used to all the… She reminds me of…" Jon smiled poignantly, "… of someone else you liked." The direwolf licked his face again.

"Everyone failed to mention that the Lord Snow also had a silver tongue in his possession." Dany stood there, in the doorway, fiery sun blazing down on her gossamer hair, painting the typical silver a fierce auburn. Ghost rumbled happily as Jon's breath caught in his throat.

"Your brother Bran said that I would quite like you, Lord Snow." She punctuated his title and name with two bold steps towards Jon, whose veins froze solid. She had been eavesdropping. She leaned forward, shifting her weight to her toes, eyes honing in like a burst of purple sunshine behind an alabaster grin, lacquered with mischief. "Amidst that beautifully delivered compliment, Lord Snow, you didn't even fancy me pretty. A queen could find herself taking offense to that, especially a vain one. Perhaps I should _also_ be unsure of _you_."

Jon couldn't muster strength in his vocal cords for a few minutes after the queen had left, quietly chuckling to herself after stopping to commandeer a few playful gestures from Ghost. His eyes were glued to the quirky dragoness as she retreated, a mixture of curiosity, alarm and allure swirling through him. "I didn't say she _wasn't_ beautiful…" he mumbled to Ghost. It was then that he realized why she had even sought him out in the first place.

Longclaw gleamed, leaning against the door frame, the worn leather grip refurnished and re-oiled. She had returned his sword.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Fuck. My bad. I'll try to get this stupidity going _somewhere_. I swear, I'm going to work back to violence and battles and HOPEFULLY figure out a plot as well. I know this is a paltry attempt at a chapter, but I'll try better next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: I've been lax in updating. What else is new? Basically, I've been slammed at work, and also managed to go on vacation for a week, so I was indisposed with either slavery or leisure… and a fair bit of drinking in London's pubs. Well, perhaps the time I took off was well spent. I went back and re-read a bunch of old shit I've written and I think maybe that'll affect this story positively.

* * *

The crypts of Winterfell were, as expected, quite cold. Dany didn't know what had bidden her to see the oft-forgotten area of the castle, though she was fond of the exciting anecdotes and tales of each of the Stark statues that Bran Stark could conjure up from his memory. The young queen's eye had rested upon the statue of a woman, as Bran recounted tales of his father, mother and brother in front of their statues. But she wasn't listening. Not really.

"Do all Stark children favor their mothers?" Daenerys said, eyes roaming over the statue's wild hair and open, warm face. Her nose was dainty, perfectly proportioned, just like… "This one fancies Jon Snow." She cast a perfunctory gaze sideways, eying the statue of Ned as well, before returning her eyes steadily upon the woman.

"Lady Lyanna Stark… My father's sister…" Bran was silent for a time, watching the queen scrutinize the statue, as if it were a queer fixation for her. "She died before Jon even came to Winterfell… They never even met. She was the one who…" The young Lord of Winterfell's voice faded off slowly, thinking it prudent to evade conversations which brought the Stark and Targaryen families against one another.

Dany only hummed in affirmation, a noise born deep in her throat, before turning back to Bran and joining him closer to the statues of Ned, Catelyn and Robb. "I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your story, my lord. You said that Lord Robb was lost in the woods as a child?" That woman's face was still burnt into her mind; a visage subliminally tugging at the corners of her consciousness.

Bran's face lit up. "Yes, when he was younger, Robb wanted to be a knight so badly that he had borrowed a horse from the stables. My brother had an unquenchable drive, but there's only so much one of eight years can do. He fell off the horse and broke his ankle. Mother was so relieved when Jon found him and brought him back that she didn't punish him for a week."

Bran continued to lay his stories upon the silver haired queen, unknowing that her interests had been detained by Jon Snow and Lyanna Stark, two enigmas; two mysteries she had yet to fully understand.

(-=-=-=-=-)

Jon stared carefully down the blade of Longclaw, scrutinizing everything; the edge, the heft of the steel, the carefully tapered point, down to the intricately damasked pattern along the blade. Satisfied, he stuffed it into its sheath and hung it across the small of his back comfortably. With Ghost at his heel, Jon's eyes swept out through the armory's main window, drinking in the snow-covered courtyard of Winterfell; of Home. Despite the duties of being Lord Commander, Jon always found his dreams haunted by visions of the now snow-covered grounds. His body may have taken the Black, but the young man could always envision different futures, possible paths through life. Just as Ygritte had once taken him, kicking and screaming, his mind had always been preoccupied by the 'what-ifs'… Of a life as fulfilling for him as it would be for those who chose to share his life _with_ him. Slate grey eyes, swirling with an amalgam of wanderlust, frustration, honor and pride, stared conflicted across the vast courtyard as a snowflake lost its identity among the rest of the snow.

"I thought I might find you here, Lord Snow. Figures you would _choose_ the _armory_ over the fine company of a whore, or perhaps a large tankard of ale…" The half-man blustered into the armory toting a bottle of spirits, as though he were a jester, instead of the Lord Hand of the Queen, and acting Lord of Lannisport. "I don't suppose you mind that I hadn't the physical capacity to bring cups. I find that you and I haven't spoken since last the Lady Sansa and I visited the Wall some months ago." He grinned drolly, and climbed atop a barrel after setting down the bottle. He unceremoniously tore off the cork with his teeth and upended the bottle before handing it to Jon.

"And how is Lady Sansa?" Jon took a drag from the bottle as well, grimacing at the bitterly intense flavor.

"She is well. Your _sister_ greatly enjoys life in King's Landing, though at the moment I fear she would reprimand me harshly if she heard me. The little one is coming along… She is due within a month or so." Tyrion swiped the bottle from Jon and sucked down another drink. "Dare I pray he has his mother's height, and my indefatigable wit and charm."

"As long as the child doesn't inherit your love of whoring and boozing," Jon said snidely, before grinning and stifling a laugh. Another drink found its way into his mouth, slightly burning his sinuses.

The dwarf's eyes shone with black mirth as he rebutted, "I would much prefer boozing and whoring to _fucking_ the _Queen of Westeros_. Boozing and whoring is _far_ less dangerous, my Lord Snow." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, before snagging the liquor from Jon's frozen hands, burying the bottle in his face again.

Narrow and edged like the steel across his back, Jon stared directly at the Hand, his friend. Frozen, as though captured in stone like the statues in the crypts of Winterfell, Jon eyed the halfling cautiously; patiently. "What?" he said in a dangerously even voice.

Tyrion took another swig, and handed the bottle back to Jon, then cleared his throat. "Our beloved Queen has taken quite a shining towards you, according to Bran and nearly _everyone else_ who resides in the castle of Winterfell. You can't _seriously_ still be so naïve as to think that your presence here and _in her company_ hasn't drawn eyes and ears. Queen Daenerys, beautiful and strong as she is, still is without husband. She is the crucible through which men desire to become _king_."

Jon sat down next to Tyrion on an adjacent barrel and sighed a long and haggard breath. "Fuck." Jon took a drink that would have made even the Dothraki proud of him. "I'm _not_. You _do _know that, right Tyrion? I'm… I'm the L-"

The dwarf cut him off, "At least you're no longer '_the bastard_'. Jon, there are far worse things to be accused of. And I happen to know that Daenerys is growing _quite_ fond of you… Just do remember not to get burned, my Lord." The dwarf stuffed the bottle back into Jon's hands and headed towards the corridor, "Now come, Jon, our fiery Queen has a gift she would like to present to you. One that may just thaw out your frozen cock."

Jon took another drink as he followed Tyrion with an irritated frown. "My cock is not _frozen_." He drank one more, nodding his head at the memory of Daenerys' beaming smile. "And I didn't burn the _last _time."

Tyrion shot a look at the man over his shoulder, and narrowed his eyes, mind churning like a rolling wave. He observed the flippant smile on Jon's face, and once again reminded himself of _how_ the Lord Commander returned to Winterfell; in the claws of a dragon. Queen Daenerys was no longer the solitary owner of the title Unburnt. The Hand snorted, "I see you've managed to cultivate a sense of humor in that frozen shit-hole."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: So… I have the next few chapters kind of planned out. I dunno how it'll fit in the grand scheme of things. But I promise you readers, I'll be bringing some action within the next two chapters. I haven't forgotten that the entire _premise_ of this story is based on the fact that Jon should be _fighting_. I've got a few aces up my sleeve. And a queen as well, haha. I intend on updating very soon, also… I know I always claim that, and then let you down, but I'm really trying to have another chapter out before Monday. As always, review and show me some love, folks. Even if that's all you got.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: I think I got a little bit more of this figured out for the moment… So maybe that means I'll be updating a lot sooner? Who the fuck knows… BUT! Guess what Dany's got for Jonny Boy! I kinda wrote this all in an hour or two also… I just had to get the idea down on paper!

* * *

Sam Tarly sat in his chambers, his toes having lost all feeling for a while now in the impenetrable cold of The Wall. The Night's Watch had been managing itself fine, though three of the men from Dorne had escaped with a spear and two chickens a few nights prior. Once word had reached The Wall that Jon Snow had successfully been recovered, the entire Watch was relieved, even if Sam had thought it prudent to omit that he was back in Winterfell. In fact, the letter he had received had been very curt, in the way that Sam was content to not ask any more questions.

Sam sighed as he stared at the final draft of his letter. Things within the Watch were fine.

It was Beyond The Wall that was troublesome.

Each night, the mist crept in like a shadowcat; mist so thick that it appeared to be made of hands, pulling you in every maddening direction without reason. Even with a bright fire, visibility was so poor that a man could walk without being able to see his own belt. It was stifling.

Sam had mandated that _all _ranging parties were to return to Castle Black, and none were to go Beyond The Wall after night had fallen. No exceptions. The mist itself was enough to suffocate you, or drive you mad. Some of the men had heard whispers within the mist, comprised of a lugubrious yet vehement foreign tongue. Others claimed sightings of giant spiders, with fangs the size of icicles, white and hairy and horrible.

The young maester hadn't seen or experienced anything different than abysmal food, lack of conversation and a constant reminder to get more socks. Fortunately, Sam was not a dullard. He signed his name at the bottom of the letter, and folded it before sealing it with the wax crest of the Night's Watch.

There was no sense in crying wolf prematurely, but Sam had a definite suspicion that things were about to get distinctly worse on The Wall, and _soon_. This letter underlined their current situation, and requested as much aid as possible. It would be reviewed by Jon in Winterfell, soon enough, before being distributed to the rest of Westeros.

As the portly man tied the message to the leg of a raven, and sent it flying towards Winterfell, he shut out the idea of Lord Commander Jon Snow returning with an army of soldiers, and The Dragon Queen riding alongside his dear friend. "It would be foolish to even entertain myself with such folly…" He sent the raven on its way, shutting the window quickly, as if afraid of something intangible.

(-=-=-=-=-)

Daenerys sat next to Bran, both at their respective places of courtly honor. The young Lord of Winterfell dressed in his house colors, furs draped across his lap, with Summer lying by his feet, ears cocked at attention. The normally stoic Stark sat rigidly, as if bristling, though his face was a mask of hidden emotions, none clearer than the next. He watched in guarded silence as a group of armed patrolmen dragged a man into the brightly light hall.

Daenerys herself was glowing, scarlet silk slick against her silvery skin. The deep black cloak around her shoulders made her skin almost translucent, but only served to intensify her deeply amethyst eyes. Intense flames burned behind them, while she looked down her nose at the gaunt, zombie-esque man being forced to his knees before her.

His bones jut out at odd angles, and the sallow, grey skin of his face was pulled tight against his skull, giving him an emaciated look. He spat on the floor and growled, "What do you intend to do with me, _Your Grace_?" The way he spat out her title made Daenerys want to brush her teeth, as though it were mucus, cloying on the tongue.

She stepped down, "You're guilty of rape, the murder of men, women and children, torture and treason against your sworn lord and the crown itself." Daenerys eyed him carefully, noting how his lip curled up in satisfaction as the charges piled up. "Do you acknowledge your crimes?"

The vile looking man, the demon, laughed deeply, the rasping bark sounding more like the inhuman scream of souls. "What will you do, inbred bitch? Feed me to your dragons?" His face twisted into a surly scowl cast of purely murderous intentions. "I demand a trial by combat."

The Queen's eyes flared up in anger, like a star collapsing on itself, as she tersely said, "Do not presume to demand anything from me." She stepped back up onto the dais and sat down in the chair next to Bran, folding one leg over the other. "I had initially thought to unleash Drogon upon you, and burn you to ashes, or perhaps to simply make him tear you limb from limb." A few silver bells clinked in her hair as silver strands spilled over her shoulder and down her back. "I think that rather than feeding you to my dragon, I would prefer to feed you to my _wolf_."

"The cripple?" he screamed incredulously, before his inhuman laughter abraded the halls of Winterfell again.

Stalking in shadowy silence, silvered fur slipped stealthily behind scarlet eyes. Ghost padded up the dais from a side corridor, loping behind both Bran and Daenerys, before sitting down precisely in front of the Queen, facing down at the disheveled traitor. "No, Lord Bolton… I'm going to feed you to _my wolf_." Dany turned her eyes to the man and the dwarf approaching the doorway, fixing her beautiful face into a wicked grin.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Not to really blow my own horn, but I thought that was a fucking AWESOME end to a chapter. I finally got a little burst of inspiration for writing this shit out, so please do review if you like it. Also, I'm open to suggestions, comments, concerns. So lemme know whether it's a waste of time to keep the story going or not.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I read them all, but I can't always respond. I really do appreciate that you take the time out of your day to give me a few words to chew on for thought. Also, don't read into my words too much particularly. I've got a flare for the dramatic. When Dany said 'my wolf', she was referencing all the Starks… She _is_ the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms after all. So… time to finish what I started last chapter.

* * *

Daenerys lazily stroked Ghost's head as she fixed her eyes on Jon Snow, eyes of purple sunshine focused upon the scruffy curve of his jaw, clenched tight in rage, as his eyes darkened to obsidian. Tall and lithe, he stalked forward, leaving Tyrion to scurry along behind him. The Queen never let her eyes fall from him, as though she were scared she would miss something imperceptibly important. When Jon was close enough that she could see the bridled fury shining in his eyes, she gave Ghost one more scratch behind the ear, and said, "Make no mistake, a Stark will take your head. As you yourself have noted, Lord Bolton, Lord Brandon Stark _is _crippled and as such, there shall be a more able proxy provided." She hadn't looked down to regard the Dread Bastard, and raised a hand to Jon, signaling him to come forward.

Black cloak flowing behind him in a rustle of fur, Jon advanced with slow, measured steps, before ascending the dais with Dany and Bran, taking his place next to Ghost. Lips pressed tightly together in a drawn scowl, he looked severe, caustic. Dany had remembered Tyrion's prior warning. Jon Snow was not a man to be trifled with.

If Ramsay Bolton had been scared, he hardly showed it, once again laughing devilishly, "The Bastard of Winterfell! Aren't Crows supposed to remain at The Wall? Or have you dishonored yourself as your father before you?" His laughter sounded like dry skin being spread and dragged across pumice.

Jon stood silent and still, and Dany again spoke up, "You've dishonored your oath to Lord Eddard Stark and his bloodline. As Lord Snow _is _of the Stark bloodline, Lord Brandon and I have jointly decided he shall be the one sever your pathetic head from your shoulders, it's him."

"Give him a sword." Jon didn't wait for Daenerys to finish speaking. He didn't adorn his speech with titles or fancy. It wasn't a request. Longclaw simply sang its sharp, razor-edged song as it slipped seamlessly from its sheath.

Daenerys had never seen this man before. This was not the Jon Snow that she had grown fond of; gone were his guarded smiles and stifled laughter. Instead, the Jon Snow that stood next to her towered at least a full head over her, eyes blackened with rage, his unruly black curls shrouding his face like the hood of The Stranger. She had seen such intensity before, when Khal Drogo had brandished his arach with bloodcurdling screams, though Jon Snow wasted no effort on shows of aggression. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to touch him, to assure herself that this was still the same man, to know his most guarded of thoughts, to shield him from the possibility of his _own_ blood being drawn.

But she only waved a hand, and Ramsay Bolton was shoved forward, a sword tossed at his feet.

(-=-=-=-=-)

Jon parried Bolton's fierce approach, Longclaw batting away the Flayed Man's sword like a gnat. Circling to his left, the bastard Stark kept his sword point aimed defiantly at Ramsay's kneecap, poised like a wolf waiting for a kill. Every time the gaunt prisoner would lunge in for an attack, Longclaw arced upward with a flourish, its Valyrian steel slamming violently against Bolton's sword. For all his intensity, Jon had yet to even attempt a strike upon his reviled opponent. Yet still, his surgically precise swordplay made Ramsay Bolton appear like a child against a Kingsguard.

Bolton advanced again, swinging his sword laterally, turning his wrist with a jerking motion at the last minute. Ramsay's sword slid upward through the air, passing over top of Jon's sword and biting vehemently into the Lord Commander's left shoulder just beneath the bone. He bit back his curses and remained obstinately silent, as if refusing the sadist the pleasure of knowing just how much it fucking hurt. The Watcher leaned his weight into the blade and pushed himself free of it, bringing his gauntleted hand, along with Longclaw's pommel smashing down across the exposed brow of the Dreadlord.

"Come, bastard!" Ramsay spat blood onto the stone floors of the Great Hall, and unleashed a hellish laugh, "I wonder if you enjoy the taste of my sword as much as your sniveling cunt of a sister!" He advanced again with renewed fervor, as if drawing blood had reinvigorated him with inhuman strength. Jon backpedaled as quickly as he could, trying to put some space between himself and his opponent, managing to dodge most of the whistling steel. "I'll fuck you with my sword just like little Arya, before she begged me to slit her throat like a pig!"

Eyes snapping to attention, Jon leaned his weight forward and pivoted on his left foot, casting Longclaw in a vicious backslash. It sang of magic and wonder and dragons and the death of all things, as Lord Snow lopped off Bolton's hand in the middle of his forearm, sending arm and sword flying in a bloody heap against the ground. In a fluid motion, Jon twirled his sword around him overhead, sending a severing symphony with all of his might, cleanly slicing through Ramsay Bolton's leg above the knee.

An ocean of blood broke against the warm stone floor as Jon unseamed the Flayed Man, crashing with a nauseating _slop_ like a porridge of guts and organs. Ruthless and unforgiving as Winter, Lord Snow had gripped his bastard sword with both hands, wrenching it upwards between the man's legs. Lodged in Bolton's sternum, the former Lord of Winterfell slumped down in a grotesque parody of the splits, intestines writhing like snakes freed from captivity. Still silent, Jon placed his foot on the man's shoulder and yanked his sword free as the sickening, wet sound of skin and bones and muscles tearing hung heavily and solemnly in the air. Another swipe with Longclaw sang the elegy of Ramsay Bolton as his head rolled off his neck, and rolled towards the feet of Daenerys and Bran with a splash of blood and a splatter of spinal fluid.

Jon nodded to his half-brother, and shifted his eyes towards Dany, a thinly veiled look of admiration, concern and unadulterated amazement hanging off of her lips and eyebrows, but her eyes; Her violet eyes held no remorse, hardened into amethyst. Ghost quickly darted away from his position near the Queen, feasting horrifically upon the steaming remains of the Lord of the Dreadfort.

Men around him were retching, violently ejecting the contents of their stomachs at the gruesome spectacle. Hardened soldiers, onlookers, and even a few Dothraki bloodriders had blanched at the pure savagery of it all. But Jon did not notice. Disheveled and bleeding once again, the scarlet spray contrasted fiercely against his pale face and black clothing. He looked regal, unwittingly dressed in the Targaryen crimson, black and silver, sword and direwolf dripping freshly with the blood of his enemy.

Jon and Dany's eyes never strayed from each other, an ardent if unspoken gratefulness between them. A curt nod and an imperceptible smile passed between the bastard and his Queen.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I felt cheated. Seriously, I don't think I did a very good job on that fight scene at all really… I just… I dunno, I couldn't get a feel for it really. It's been so long since I've read the books that I just don't think I have a very good grasp on Ramsay Bolton's character, and certainly not in his combat prowess. I hope I didn't disappoint too terribly. So much for Dany's gift to Jon right (and mine to you – some fucking killing!)? But yeah… The main gift Tyrion was talking about was this; delivering Ramsay Bolton to the Starks. Sorry. Please review for me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: It's been too long. My life has been in the shitter lately. I got robbed of like all my money, so I'm on thin ice until next payday. Fuck. Well, I guess it's time to develop Jon and Dany's relationship a little, riiiiight? Who's with me?

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen looked on with curiosity, the inquisitiveness of a child painted evidently upon her beautiful face. "Your brother told me I might find you here, Jon."

Jon, the splitting image of Ned Stark, sat cradled by the weirwood tree, gently rinsing off Longclaw with water from the tiny brook that flowed through the grove. He looked up, startled yet strangely calm, face and armor still soaked in crimson. "Your Grace," he said slowly, dropping down to a knee and bowing his head. "I just needed to calm down after…"

Her eyes reflected purple bursts of sunshine, and her melodious laughter sifted through the godswood. "Dispense with the formalities, Jon. I hear them so often I'm more like than not to forget my own name!" With an undignified flop, she sat down next to the brook, pale fingers errantly toying with the glistening waters. Eyes honed in upon Jon, she watched him settle back against the tree, just as Bran had said their father used to do.

"You know, Jon… I should've moved on from Winterfell by now. I should be traveling towards the Eyrie. I just keep making up excuses to stay for a while. King's Landing is dreadful." She made tiny little circles in the water and watched as the ripples broke upon the perfectly tapered point of Longclaw as Jon continued to wash away the blood. "I have to deal with so many issues of which I know nothing. And then there's all the suitors… Gods, they're beyond irritating… vapid nobles all squabbling over _my _throne."

Jon sheathed Longclaw and set it aside, and turned his focus to the Mother of Dragons. "I do not envy you that, Daenerys. I find that even being the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch is trying. I couldn't imagine the hardships of ruling an entire kingdom."

"Surely you have your own fair share of suitors. A man as handsome and skilled as you must have commanded the fancy of some pretty, young thing." Dany smiled coyly, scooting closer to the sullen, young man. Her smile was demure, but her eyes were predatory, like that of Ghost stalking his next meal. It was unnerving.

"You know the Night's Watch take no wives, no titles, and no lands…" Jon's eyes drooped with sadness as he mused upon his previous infraction upon his vows; Ygritte. She and Dany were not so dissimilar. Both had a fiery spirit, and _took _what they wanted, rather than politely asking. "The people of Winterfell… Tyrion told me that the people believe I've broken my vows to the Night's Watch…" He averted his eyes once more, staring pointedly at one of the many weirwood roots that branched out around him.

She had baited the trap carefully, and it had worked. Perfect, pearly teeth peeked out from her plump, seductive lips as her grin widened from ear to ear, "Really? I had not heard. And pray tell with _whom_?" Dany had heard the whisperings also, but was loath to put a stop to them. Bran himself had commented on more than one occasion that she was always asking questions about Jon Snow. Queen Daenerys didn't care; Jon Snow was a creature of intrigue. Let the men talk.

"With you." Jon's eyes met hers, his entire body tensing as he realized just how close he was to her beautifully silky hair, and her piercing eyes, the Queen's presence hungrily engulfing him. It was intoxicating to be so close to her, to breathe in the faint scent of lavender oils off her skin in the crisp air of the godswood.

"Let the men talk, then." It all happened so quickly. Dany gripped his collar with both hands and kissed him fiercely, imploringly upon the lips, biting and suckling and licking. For a timeless moment, the two were joined in a furious battle of tongues. She broke off the kiss, then returned for one more, this quicker than the previous, and infinitely more chaste. Without another word, she stood up with a smirk and silently started to saunter towards Castle Winterfell, leaving a dumbfounded Lord Commander perched by the heart-tree.

"You should wipe that blood off of your face. It's too handsome for such gore." Dany's nose crinkled and her eyes sang of laughter under summer skies, as she cast a wry smile over her shoulder at Jon as she retreated. "You should also wipe that silly look off of your face, Lord Commander Sullen. You've only just kissed a woman, not a wight."

Jon sat in disbelief, unable to tear his eyes away from the fiery, lustful figure of Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen. He still had a dopey look across his face.

(-=-=-=-=-)

As Jon was getting his wounds tended to, his thoughts rested solely upon the Queen of Westeros; the way she had so flippantly disregarded what others thought. She was so like Ygritte, so like Arya, so like the stories that his father had told of Lyanna Stark. She was a true Queen of Love and Beauty.

He winced as a sickly smelling sallow poultice was applied to the shallow cut across his thigh, before it was tightly bound in fresh, white linens. There was a knock on the door, and a man stepped inside. Jon wasn't particularly paying attention, mind still openly salivating over what had happened just an hour ago. He heard a faint sound, as though someone were trying to speak to him, yet again he remained within his own mind, playing out scenario after scenario with his platinum goddess.

But when the man handed him a letter, with the wax seal of The Night's Watch, Jon felt his heart drop into his stomach and start digging. He shakily opened it, remembering that he was a sworn man. No matter how beautiful or captivating the woman, he could not have her.

Jon Snow was the 999th Commander of The Night's Watch, destined to live, serve, fight and die upon The Wall.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: It's late as fuck, and I'm still up. Should be sleeping… Sorry if that's why it's kinda lackluster for a chapter. Also, Dany's used to getting what she wants… I think Jon's gonna have to be the one to end up coming around and warming up to the idea (given his Night's Watch Vows)… I always liked that she comes off so strongly in her interpersonal skills, so… I dunno. Anybody actually like this chapter? I don't know how I feel about it. I'll try to update soon! Please please please review for me, folks! It keeps me going.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

**Foreword**: The bad luck never ends with me. Well, I guess my current predicament is my own fault. Hey kids, don't drink and drive. Don't even look suspicious enough to be bothered by cops. Gaddamn.

* * *

Again, Lord Jon Snow had donned his stygian armor, oiled breastplate gleaming dangerously against the rising sun. Crimson skies splashed across the heavens, splotched with still-dark clouds, appearing to the eye as rent flesh sliding jaggedly across a pool of blood. Jon's shadow cast beside him seemed to make the young man as tall as a dragon, and as fierce as even Drogon. His breath, tendrils of steam freezing mid-air, was the only sign that this was a mortal man. Still as a statue he stood, for just a few more moments, before he paced to his horse. He began saddling the wretched creature, hardening his mind and thoughts, steeling himself for the dangerous, frostbitten journey for the Wall; for his duty. "I leave home once more," Jon mumbled sardonically as he tightened the harness, "Back into the desolate winters."

"Were you going somewhere, _Lord _Snow?" There was a sour tone of distaste in the normally velvety voice Jon had grown accustomed to. Daenerys' brow furrowed, and tiny wrinkles drooped down her face, to rest at the corners of her mouth. Gone were the airy, playful aura about her and the seductive looks and intonations of her words. In her place was a Conqueror; A regal queen; A woman; Khaleesi.

"Your Grace-"

"Dany," she said sharply, frown deepening. Violet fire danced hotly in her eyes, an inferno of amethyst.

Jon only sighed, averting his eyes to the ground. "I spoke with you of the Wall just last evening, Dany… I must go back. Something is amiss, and I have to return to my men; to my place." His own brow dipped, face twisted into a visage of grave duty.

She leaned forward on the balls of her feet, "Yes… I suppose you did." She motioned to the rising sun, climbing its way over the horizon. She scrutinized him head to toe, eyes darting over every line of his face. "And as your Queen, I expect regular reports from the Wall – directly to me. If the situation is as dire as you insist, then I must be informed of it immediately. I've not seen these White Walkers, but I cannot allow them to become a threat to my people." Jabbing an accusatory finger into his breastplate, she reiterated, "You will write to me, Jon Snow. And if Westeros must go to war once again, I expect you to reassure your men… The Mother of Dragons is coming, for _you_." She punctuated her statement by again thrusting a finger into Jon's chest, though the implications of her pauses and accentuation failed to hit him.

Cloaked in grim determination, Jon felt as frosted as his surname as he nodded curtly, "I will, Daenerys. We will hold The Wall, as we always have. I just fear that this impending battle is hastening towards us on frenzied horses." His eyes softened, a polished bead of slate, and fixed his gaze to his Queen's, inviting the inferno of amethyst. "I believe that our paths – yours and mine – shall cross again. The circumstances may, unfortunately, at that time, be dire. If it is any consolation, I shall rest easier each night knowing that such an extraordinary," he paused, wisps of a grin flitting across the corners of his mouth, before adding, "and _beautiful_ woman is rallying Westeros for us."

Her fingers slithered through her silken hair and settled around one of the silver bells secured among the tresses. The frown and rage upon her face had softened, the volcanic eruption calming down to a slowly burning candle-wick. She held it in front of herself with almost child-like reverence, carefully running a thumbed caress across its tarnished, soot-encrusted silver dimples. Each dent she touched, as though she had memorized its surface entirely. "Take this with you, Jon Snow. So that you can always remember that." She swayed towards him, and secured it tightly to the scabbard of Longclaw.

She didn't step back, but only looked up at him in an unyielding gaze. "The Dothraki wear bells in their hair, one for each kill," Dany emphasized by shaking her silver mane, tiny bells tinkling in the crisp morning air, "I believe that you'll be earning a few of your own bells, soon enough… And with that hair…" She didn't finish her sentence, her eyes losing focus, distracted by thought.

Jon smiled and placed his hands over hers, bringing them to his lips. He felt her weight shift towards him, but only the very ghosts of the motion as he swept himself upon his horse. "I'll not forget you, Dany. I'll await your arrival to Castle Black, when the time comes. And when I draw my blade, everyone will know that Jon Snow of the Night's Watch is defending The Wall. Until my death, I will hold my watch for Westeros." He bowed atop his horse, feeling awkward about the rapid changes in Daenerys, unable to decode her loaded language. "Fare well, Your Grace." And Jon was off, returning to his post, just as suddenly as he had appeared in Winterfell.

Ghost howled lugubriously, and followed his master, after nuzzling Dany's leg once.

Daenerys stomped her foot petulantly against the frozen ground and huffed with wrathful non-syllabic noises as she watched Jon's dark figure fade along the horizon line.

(-=-=-=-=-)

It had been exactly one week – one agonizing, horrible, brutal week – since Sam had sent his letter to Winterfell, hoping for Jon's return anxiously. It had gotten harder to patrol recently, many of the rangers becoming entangled in the myriad of webs that festooned many of trees in the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs fared no better. Had men not witnessed the travesty, Sam wouldn't have been able to believe it, as words of a legion of arachnids – fierce and fast and frozen as solidly as the Others – spread across camp like wildfire.

The spiders had furiously overrun the area, surging out of every hidden ravine and cave imaginable like a stream sprouted directly from the River Styx; living, biting, poisoning, freezing death come to life as spiders long since thought extinct.

Sam felt his blood run cold as the pale moonlight filtered through his window, trying to imagine himself, Pyp, and Grenn holding the Watch together, should any of those chasms dare unleash a torrent of spiders upon Castle Black. None of the spiders had ever been successfully _fought_ more or less _killed_, considering the sheer size of the creatures. Yet all the same, the gossamer strands of silk crept forward every day, devouring its way across the North, edging closer and closer to The Wall.

The young maester shivered, warming his chest with his own arms, wishing once more that he had Jon's courage, his strength, or at the very least his words. Jon could talk him into a sword fight with Jamie Lannister, if he cared to try hard enough. "I'm sure he could fool me into thinking that this all isn't so _bad_ at least," he grumbled, warily eying the top of The Wall, wishing it was a few times higher.

Had his eyes lingered for only a few moments more, Samwell Tarly would have seen a solitary shape skitter surefooted over The Wall, eight dangerously blue eyes flashing in every direction as it began its slow and stealthy descent.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: So sue me. I'm sorry it's not the best, but I seriously had to get _something_ out, or else I would end up putting it off until forever. Did anybody like the bell? There's the real gift Dany gave Jon... The only bell she saved from Drogo's pyre (which I totally made up but fuck it). And also, thank you for the reviews, and for everybody who's following along with this story, and patiently dealing with my sporadic posting.


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